Ronan stumbled into the cavern, his breath labored and his hands trembling as he steadied himself against the jagged walls. The torch he carried sputtered in the damp air, its faint light flickering across the shadows. He had followed the whispers—those persistent murmurs that had called to him like a forgotten melody—deep into the ruins.

  At first, he thought it was just another fool’s errand, probably some prank by the seniors. But now, he wasn’t so sure.

  The chamber opened up suddenly, a vast, circular expanse carved into the earth. In the center, a massive stone disc lay embedded in the floor, its surface cracked but unyielding. Symbols covered every inch of it—intricate, ancient, and incomprehensible. They glowed faintly, pulsing with a rhythm that matched his heartbeat.

  “What is this place?” he muttered, his voice swallowed by the oppressive silence.

  He stepped closer, the torchlight catching on a weathered inscription carved along the edge of the disc. It was in a language he didn’t know, yet somehow, the meaning pressed itself into his mind, unbidden and undeniable:

  "Seven paths to shape the world. Seven truths to bind its soul."

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  The torch flickered violently, its flame shrinking as though suffocated. And then he heard it—a voice, ancient and fractured, as if pulled from the cracks of time itself.

  “Do you seek the truths?”

  Ronan froze. His instincts screamed at him to run, but his feet wouldn’t move. “Who’s there?”

  The voice didn’t answer, but the symbols on the disc began to shift, their shapes twisting and reforming. Slowly, seven distinct sigils emerged, each glowing with its own color: bronze, silver, crimson, emerald, gold, sapphire, and onyx. As the light from each sigil intensified, Ronan felt the weight of something immense pressing down on him.

  A rush of images flooded his mind.

  The voice returned, this time softer, almost mournful. “Seven truths. Seven paths. Each born from purpose, each undone by its own hand. Their echoes remain, scattered and hidden. Will you walk their paths?”

  Ronan staggered back, his head spinning. “What does this have to do with me?”

  “Because you are the first to hear their call in centuries.”